Wednesday, 19 October 2011

Trick or treat

A sky whipped into fire above fields of straw rolled into Catherine wheels, horses given free reign from the rain gallop with manes singed by the flame above.

Trees, hills and houses, their dimensions stolen by the blaze, appear as scorched silhouettes, theatrical cut outs the only indication of where the sky ends and the land begins.

Memory fails me, I'm not sure if it is always like this or the garden's mischievous nature this year is lulling me into a false sense of seasonal calm. It continues to be reborn, flourishing and flowering even while the nights draw in and my evening walks are unnerved by the scuttle of dried leaves pursuing me down the track and through the spinney.

There's a sound clash of summers whispers and autumns crackle as they compete for the attention of the wind, overdubbing, mixing and fading to make a new seasons soundtrack.

The insects seem to be as confused as me, (or in on the joke), a few bees who must be weary from a summer of work still seem to be bumbling amongst the flowers. The flowers themselves that should be resting or at the very least putting on their winter woollies, seem happy with the company. Recently a humming bird moth, my first of the year, busied itself around the bushes whilst a dragonfly, like a storm tossed helicopter patrolled the flower beds, wheeling and banking to rescue its lunch from the seasonal gusts.

There are some seasonal indicators that have slipped my notice, the swallows left as quickly and quietly as they came and the squadrons of geese that had been practicing their air born manoeuvres over cottage for the last few weeks have obviously completed enough dummy runs and secretly taken off on their mission to warmer climes.

Even though the skies have lost these visitors there's still a lot of airborne action, our ever faithful barn owls patrol the meadow and the clouds of jackdaws swirl, seemingly with a distinct lack of purpose, that is until they spy the buzzards which they hurriedly harry.

It does amaze me how all these birds manage without air traffic control, I stood by the dovecot early the other evening enjoying watching the ducks fly like noisy spitfires in ever decreasing circles, before crash landing from the darkening sky onto the Belleau Spring. I admired the skill and finesse that these sometimes comical birds commanded, however, as I watched their tight knit formation I was amazed to see two of them fly into each other and nearly drop from the sky.

The drama of the weather predictors hints at snow in the forthcoming weeks, if the gardens behaviour isn't intentional, what a shock the flora and fauna will get. The question is now to cut or not cut, is it selfish of me to want to keep the gloom at bay with all this colour?